


Those of Great Ambition

by seejaywrites (thermodynamicActivity)



Series: snakes in the grass [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1970s, 1990s, Amnesia, F/M, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Health Issues, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Post-First War with Voldemort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Queerplatonic Relationships, aromantic asexual characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23338519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thermodynamicActivity/pseuds/seejaywrites
Summary: Not all of Slytherin house became Death Eaters when push came to shove. Not all of Salazar's children wore silver masks. Not all of you ignored the writing on the wall. Some of you turned, faced down your former roommates, and fought against the tyranny of the Dark Lord. And each of you suffered for it, oh how you suffered.It's 1990, now. You, Augustine Greengrass, reflect that you have suffered more than most, but less than some. You wish you could say the same for your best mates, all of whom were Order of the Phoenix members. Order members from Slytherin house.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy, OFC/OFC, OMC/OFC
Series: snakes in the grass [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678381
Kudos: 3





	1. prologue: listen to the wind blow; watch the sun rise

**Author's Note:**

> After much bouncing of ideas off the heads of all my friends in this fandom, I've finally gotten to writing that "slytherins in the first war" fic I've been saying someone should write (it appears that the someone is going to be me).  
> As such, it is going to be very OC-centric.  
> I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it.  
> Pairings and whatnot to be added as they become plot relevant.
> 
> originally posted in 2015. in active rewrite as of march 2020.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Augustine Greengrass, current head of the Broom Regulatory Control department at the Ministry of Magic, reflects on his experiences during the war against Voldemort, as a Slytherin member of the Order of the Phoenix.
> 
> \---  
>  _(The first war against Voldemort could be summed up easily: a resistance group of valiant Gryffindors, aided by a smattering of Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and internationally-educated wix, against a fascist madman._
> 
> _The side of good, The Order of the Phoenix, was a unified front, full of heroic and courageous individuals that did everything they could to stop the machinations of Lord Voldemort and his sycophants, never once stooping to his level in their battles._
> 
> _Where had Slytherin house been during Voldemort’s reign of terror? Heeding his call in their silver masks, naturally. Torturing and slaying muggles, muggleborns, and anyone suspected of assisting them. Even those who did nothing, did exactly that. Refused to raised a word of objection, or a wand in retaliation._
> 
> _So, Slytherin as the house of ambition and cunning? Really? What a load of bunk.)_
> 
> If you have information suggesting otherwise, you've learned to keep your mouth shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first published in july 2015, and deleted in january of 2020. republished and being rewritten as of march of this year.
> 
> original notes: _After much bouncing of ideas off the heads of all my friends in this fandom, I've finally gotten to writing that "slytherins in the first war" fic I've been saying someone should write (it appears that the someone is going to be me).  
>  As such, it is going to be very OC-centric.  
> I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it.  
> Pairings and whatnot to be added as they become plot relevant._

**_By Gryffindor, the bravest were  
_ _Prized far beyond the rest;_**   
**_For Ravenclaw, the cleverest  
Would always be the best;_ **   
**_For Hufflepuff, hard workers were  
Most worthy of admission;_ **   
**_And power-hungry Slytherin  
Loved those of great ambition._ **

_\- The Sorting Hat, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_

* * *

**_April 1990_ **

It’s an easily observable fact that history is written by those with power, you think to yourself. It’s why you never hear about Dumbledore’s dalliance with a certain dark wizard back in 1899, or never come to know the history of the Gaunt family unless you hunt around through stacks of parchment more yellowed than Argus Filch’s teeth.

To the generation that cropped up after 1980 - and to many who had been around at the time, and should have known better - the first war against Voldemort could be summed up easily: a resistance group of valiant Gryffindors, aided by a smattering of Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and internationally-educated wix, against a psychopath and his army of followers.

The side of good, The Order of the Phoenix, was a unified front, full of heroic and courageous individuals that did everything they could to stop the machinations of Lord Voldemort and his sycophants, never once stooping to his level in their battles.

Albus Dumbledore, a paragon of white magic, made sure of this.

After so many died, at least once Voldemort had been essentially killed by a child, many were turned into venerated martyrs. Because it was safe, memorials to resistance members popped up across all of Wizarding Britain. It seemed like everyone had known at least one of those bold individuals.

_Gideon Prewett. Fabian Prewett. Marlene McKinnon. Benjy Fenwick. Peter Pettigrew. James Potter. Lily Evans-Potter. Alice Fortescue. Frank Longbottom._

And more, besides. Bright, young, full of life, and taken too long before their time.

Getting sorted into Gryffindor became a point of pride, since so many of their number had fallen in battle against an unspeakable evil.

And while Slytherin maintained much of its old-money prestige, due to the affluence and influence of its old members, there were always whispers in the hallways about that lot.

Because where had Slytherin house been during Voldemort’s reign of terror? Heeding his call in the silver masks of Death Eaters, naturally. Torturing and slaying muggles, muggleborns, and anyone suspected of assisting them. Even the ones who did nothing, did exactly that. Nothing. Never once raised a word of objection, or a wand in retaliation.

The house of ambition and cunning? Really, now?

Unless you asked an affluent pureblood wix, raised from birth to end up there, and oftentimes indoctrinated with delusions of inherent genetic superiority, Slytherin was comprised of elitist cowards at best, and dark wizards at worst.

If you have information suggesting otherwise, you've learned to keep your mouth shut.

What would be the point in arguing?

People tend to write history into the format most convenient for the era, and last decade is no exception to that rule. 

On your way to work, you pass a memorial to Dorcas Meadowes, newly restored, and surrounded by candles that have been lit with gentle pink flames.

Idly, you remember that today would have been her birthday. Thirty-five, is it? She’d been around four or five years above you in Hogwarts, a Hufflepuff prefect who’d given your terrified eleven year old self directions back to your dormitory with a smile.

Later, she had been a reasonably talented duelist as well, but not talented enough, not nearly enough.

You step through the entrance into the Ministry of Magic, and walk as briskly as you can to your department with your busted knee, an old injury that never quite healed properly.

“Morning, Augustine!” someone calls as you pass.

You wave in the vague direction of their voice. Damn these hallways and their echoing, eternally confusing you with these acoustics.

Alastor Moody spies you across the lift and nods at you, a gesture you return with a genuine smile. You keep meaning to have a cup of tea with that man, even if he tries to find an excuse to get out of it. You keep meaning to have a cup of tea with a lot of people.

Once you’ve reached your office, located in the broom regulatory control division of the Department of Magical Transportation, your assistant mock-salutes you, everything but his face obscured by an impressive stack of paperwork.

May God have mercy on this poor kid’s soul.

“Working hard, or hardly working?” you ask.

“I dunno, you tell me, Mr. Greengrass.”

You ease yourself down into the chair at your desk, stare down your own respective pile of parchment paperwork, and sigh loudly. As an afterthought, you decide to brew a cup of tea and read the Prophet before you even think of tackling any of this nonsense, most of it involving teenagers flying their brooms into muggle territory, and the resultant incident reports.

You dash off your signature on perhaps thirty of these documents before your vision starts to blur with the banality of the exercise.

You unfold the Prophet on your lap and start reading. Chances are, the minister won’t decide to check up on your division today (or ever, for that matter).

It takes you maybe fifteen minutes to read the whole paper cover to cover.

However, something in the obituary section gives you pause - a report of the accidental death of one thirty year old Pandora McCann, survived by her husband and young daughter.

You recall Dorcas Meadowes’s memorial, a few blocks away. Yes, people you have known have died, more of them than you’d wished.

Pandora, though? The pint-sized Huffepuff girl with a knack for luring Death Eaters into empty buildings, allowing them to nearly corner her, and then dropping the entire ceiling down on them with a well-placed Reducto? Insisting she was of age when she joined the Order, with the documentation to prove it, even though she looked fourteen at best?

Her death strikes you as being a patent impossibility, some sort of mistake. People like Pandora don’t _die_.

( _Neither do any of the others who have,_ you remind yourself.)

As it turns out, her accident had involved some self-created spell gone awry, and if that doesn’t sound just like something that would happen to her, you don’t know what does.

You recall a Slytherin prefect giving a fourth-year Pandora detention for devising an irrigation charm more effective than Aguamenti and inadvertently flooding half the dungeons. She’d merely stood there blinking, as the water rose around her, and students ran past her. She seemed vaguely fascinated by the entire thing, even as an upperclassman from her house yanked her to relative safety on the staircase above her. 

_(The day after that stunt, this girl walks up to you in the dungeons, her hair messily arranged into several braids piled atop her head, her blouse untucked, and her hands cupped together carefully around something or another. You have no idea what she’s doing down here. There are several people from your house just jumping at the opportunity to curse her._

_They’d likely threaten to hex her anyway - Pandora being the kind of girl who'd never see it coming - but in this case, for once, they'd have a legitimate reason._

_“You’re one of their prefects, right?” she asks you. “Slytherin, I mean.”_

_You nod, and answer in the affirmative. Not the one who gave her detention, though, you add._

_“Oh, well, I sort of knew that already. But I thought I would give you this anyway, since I’m quite sorry for what happened.”_

_She opens her hands, and a monarch butterfly emerges, taking flight, and landing on your left shoulder. Upon further examination, you realize that it isn’t alive in the traditional sense, even as one of its antennae twitch, and its wings fold in._

_It’s a perfect facsimile of a butterfly, carefully crafted from parchment and various shades of ink._

_You mean to ask her exactly what possessed her to hand this to you of all people, how the hell she did it, and what the hell it even means, but once you turn 'round again, she’s already gone.)_

Pandora McCann. How ironic that she survived the war with Voldemort, when so many others did not, only to die of something wholly unrelated.

You recall Dorcas again, and a wave of sorrow slams into you like the Knight Bus. Not because of her memorial, sitting against a lamppost, clear as day, but because of the people you know _who did not get memorials._

Too precarious for some, the ones whose families never heard of their extracurricular activities - because it was safer then not to know - and then never found out the truth the after the fact. Still believing their loved one to be out there somewhere, hiding, maybe. Perhaps that's kinder than reality.

Too shameful for others, to the ones who grew up in the upper echelon of the wizarding world, where blood status was everything.

Why would any self-respecting member of wizarding society erect a memorial to a blood traitor? To them, the Dark Lord may have been overzealous in his methodology, but as for the goals of the Order of the Phoenix? Equality with mudbloods and rights for half-breeds? Utterly preposterous.

You don’t know how many pureblood parents must have begun disowning relatives left and right upon learning which side their child was really on.

And yes, there were a few such people being disinherited.

Not every pureblood wore a silver mask. So much of what you know to be fact is diametrically opposed to What Really Happened in the eyes of those who write history.

_(The first war against Voldemort could be summed up easily: a resistance group of valiant Gryffindors, aided by a smattering of Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and internationally-educated wix against a psychopathic madman and his army of Slytherin followers._

_That side of good, The Order of the Phoenix, was a unified front, full of heroic and courageous individuals that did everything they could to stop the machinations of Lord Voldemort, never once stooping to his level._

_(Where had Slytherin house been during Voldemort’s reign of terror? Heeding his call in their silver masks, of course. Torturing and slaying muggles, muggleborns, and anyone suspected of assisting them. Even the ones who did nothing, did exactly that. Nothing. Never once raised a word of objection, or a wand in offense.)_

Sometimes it’s easier to believe their truth, because then, maybe, certain things never occurred. Certain people never died or went insane. Certain atrocities were never committed in the name  
of the Greater Good. You were just Obliviatedat some point, then implanted with false accounts of your young adulthood.

However, Kingsley Shacklebolt nods a little too wearily at you in the hallways at the Ministry, and Alastor Moody gives you a gruff grunt of recognition when he sees you, and you know, you know in your heart of hearts, that you are not the one misremembering these events.

Not all of Salazar’s children were evil.

Not all of Godric’s were good.

Morality is seldom as binary as anyone likes to admit.

Find a time-turner strong and precise enough to return you to the tail end of the 1970s, and you could prove it, even if such a device doesn’t exist, and all you have are your memories.

Recollections of young men and women who raised their wands against bigots in masks, who had, months ago, been their roommates amid the green and silver bed hangings in the dungeons.

You can’t recall every single student who went that route, just the mere fact that they existed.

Four stick out in your head, as they always do, those you came to consider your dearest friends - _Calypso Shacklebolt, Corona Yaxley, Julius Flint, and Leonard Travers._

You are the last of that quintet, the only one to be both alive and, relatively speaking, in your right mind.

Each of you had little to gain, but much to lose by resisting the Dark Lord. Still, you joined the battle against him - not entirely aware of the consequences; who could have been? - but prepared to face them nevertheless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to let me know what you think of the story so far, particularly if you were around to read the original.


	2. chapter 1: life is long and there is time to kill today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Slytherin order members discuss recent events, and prepare for the next full Order of the Phoenix meeting.  
> \--
> 
> Calypso looks between the two of you and rolls her eyes. 
> 
> “So what have you found out in the interim?” she asks Corona.
> 
> “Loads of stuff! There’s this apothecary off Knockturn Alley that has pretty much every kind of substance you could never want, real cheap too! And then—”
> 
> “Have you learned anything of actual importance?” Calypso asks again, stressing the words as she speaks them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewrites are fun, and updates will probably be coming a great deal more quickly than they did the first time around. For one, I've written so much of this story already. Also, given the whole COVID-19 thing, my work hours have been cut, and there isn't much for me to do around the house except hang out with my girlfriend, keep my house clean, and write.

_**January 1978** _

The sun is shining, the sky is unseasonably bright, and life is delightful. Or it would be, were you actually outside, and not in the middle of Twillfitt and Tattings, getting new dress robes fitted for Narcissa Black’s wedding. Apparently you’ve gotten even more broad in the arms and chest, no doubt from all the training you’ve been doing in preparation for the Wimbourne Wasps draft.

As it stands, one of the Wimbourne scouts witnessed the final and most spectacular game of your Quidditch career, in which Slytherin stomped Gryffindor by nearly four hundred points. Although you chalk most of that victory to the hours of practice and the ability of your team to synchronize so closely, clearly the scout also saw something in you worth tentatively recruiting.

It also helped that they’d seen you play more than once.

You suppose that you did land a respectable number of goals that day, as you had been in top form.

However, the most glorious moment of all had been the look of utter despair on James Potter’s face when your seeker, a fourth year named Sophia Diggory, playing as a reserve for Regulus Black, who had been dreadfully ill at the time, caught the snitch and turned Gryffindor’s already sound loss into some sort of historic embarrassment.

While you relive the greatest afternoon of your life, the tape measure scales areas of your body you would rather have remained unsullied, and sends you plummeting back to reality. Grimacing, you figure that the stiller you stay, the faster you can get out of here and go back to practicing.

If you do manage to land a position as a reserve Chaser, if the Wasps consider you as heavily as the scout implied, you’ll probably throw some kind of massive party at your parents’ estate, because, really, playing on the same team as Ludo Bagman? Can one get any closer to perfection than that?

Yet even with the offer of a lifetime sitting in front of you, your parents, practical and staid as always, strongly suggested that you wait a year before accepting any such arrangement, despite the danger of some underclassman getting recruited from underneath you.

But, not wanting to be evicted from your home as of yet - _you quite like your things where they are, thank you very much -_ you agreed, going so far as to take on an internship at Gringotts to get them off your back.

This is the year, though, since the offer from the Wasps continues to be valid until the start of next Quidditch season, in October.

“I do believe I’m quite finished with your measurements, Mr. Greengrass,” the tailor tells you then, finally putting away that infernal tape measure. You step off the stool and bow to her.

“Thank you very much, Madam,” you reply, making sure to tip her. Always good to be polite. It’s not as if it’s her fault that her tape measure is utterly depraved.

With your new robes folded and wrapped under one arm, you decide to apparate the short distance to your best friend’s flat, since you told her you might take her up on the invitation to come over sometime this week. She’ll be glad to see you, or at the very least satisfied that you’ve finally gotten your dress robe situation sorted out with regards to _dear, sweet Narcissa’s_ wedding.

Someday you’ll understand how these two young women became so close at Hogwarts, one obsessed with learning new curses, and the other preoccupied with landing an ideal marriage.

Today, however, is not that day.

Upon arriving a flight below the correct one, you walk upstairs and and rap Calypso’s door with two of your knuckles.

“Just a minute!” she replies, subsequently remarking with something like, "It would be nice if people bothered to call me before deciding to drop by!"

Maybe a thousand years later - after she presumably removes her muggle trousers, dons more dignified attire, and puts on her makeup - this willowy young woman opens the door a few centimeters, wand extended, her features seeming far less delicate given how annoyed she looks.

With one knut-colored hand, she opens the door fully, stepping outside and giving you the once-over.

Then, she relaxes, at the very least no longer seeming furious.

Apparently she thought you were her uncle or one of his coworkers, come to check up on her again, hence the less than warm welcome. It's not that she and her uncle Kingsley don't get along. Far from it, in fact; he raised her, and is quite open about the fact that he considers her his child. That said, he worries about her exactly the way a parent would.

A good parent, anyway. 

“I assure you I am no Auror,” you tell her, emphatically. “I am a Chaser on the pitch, not a chaser of lunatics.”

“No, not unless you’re under Polyjuice. Though I can’t imagine anyone consciously wanting to look like you,” she comments, a little grin on her face.

You groan, recognizing her reference. Fifty years from now, she’ll still be finding ways to make fun of that time in sixth year when a female quidditch commentator called you “the most attractive player Slytherin house has produced this century” and insisted that several young men would "give their wand arm to be so fit". You'd have preferred the girl have used a different tactic by way of asking you on a date. Though, for what it's worth, it worked. 

You dated her for four whole weeks, a new record for you.

Such a statement from Cal, though? Then, it's nothing but a laugh, You decide not to rise to the bait.

“Neither can I,” you respond. “Get any paler, and I’d be a Weasley. That or a vampire.”

“I’ve never once seen a Weasley with brown hair and no freckles,” she says. “Nor any vampires in the sunlight.”

“Implying that you’ve ever seen a vampire.”

“You can’t say for certain that I haven’t, Mr. Greengrass.”

She beckons you inside, closes the door, locks it again, and re-casts the wards.

Her flat still looks the same as always - posh, spacious, comfortable, yet crammed to the ceiling with various textbooks. What a waste of a perfectly nice space.

“I’m shocked you didn’t fly here,” she says, clearing a nearby chair of plant diagrams and lists of potions ingredients so you can sit down. Looks like she might be trying to brew Essence of Dittany, or something. “Did your old broom finally give up the ghost?”

You fake legitimate offense at such a statement, clutching at your chest as if the very suggestion has brought you to the brink of death.

Your Cleansweep Five would never let you down. It is your broom, you have taken loving care of it over the years, and it is therefore immortal. When you finally die in some bludger related accident, you want to be buried with it.

You raise the parcel in your arms so that Calypso can see the name _Twilfitt and Tattings_ in gold calligraphy.

“Don’t think you would have wanted me on a broomstick with these in tow. What if they’d gotten wrinkled or damaged?” you ask. “What would the Malfoys say?”

She gives a decidedly unladylike snort at that. “Perish the thought.”

At that point, Calypso’s young and highly enthusiastic house-elf appears, bows to, and beams at you, nearly tripping over the carefully pressed curtain-turned-tunic that constitutes her everyday attire. You make a mental note to mock Calypso for the lilac pattern later.

“Master Augustine has come to visit!” she exclaims.

You try to greet the elf in return, obviously in a more sedate way, but you cannot, for the life of you, remember what her name is.

Calypso gestures in her direction.

“Tolsey, if you would be so kind as to prepare refreshments for Augustine and I?”

“You mean, ‘Augustine and me.’ Diction, Miss Shacklebolt, do not forget,” you chide, grinning. “What would the Malfoys say?”

It’s been a little joke between you and Calypso ever since Narcissa Black announced her impending marriage into the haughtiest family in Wizarding Britain. Asking each other what the Malfoys would say every time you make the slightest faux pas.

Trip up the stairs and swear loudly? _What would the Malfoys say?_

Drink too much alcohol at some soiree? _What would the Malfoys say?_

Spend less than four and a half hours caring for your hair each day? _What would the Malfoys say?_

Treat anyone except for other Slytherins and possibly the Minister with any sort of respect? _What would the Malfoys say?_

“Ask me that question one more time and see if I don’t Imperius you into repeatedly hitting yourself in the face,” Calypso replies.

You laugh.

About a month before you graduated from Hogwarts, of your then-housemates, upon learning both the Imperius Curse and that her fiance had cheated on her with a fourth year, did exactly that. Calypso had to give the girl detention for it, though she maintains that she would have done the exact same thing, and refrained from reporting her to Professor Dumbledore. 

Tolsey glances between the two of you nervously, wringing her hands.

Poor thing, always taking things far too literally.

You idly wonder if all young house-elves are this neurotic, since the elves your family owns are all rather old, and the one you interact with most is wrinkled, and surly, downright ancient, and therefore not a good comparison.

“Is Mistress still wanting me to prepare the refreshments?” she asks.

Calypso nods, thanks her, and asks her to calm down, insisting that her previous statement was not a serious threat.

After Tolsey disappears to follow the orders she’s been given, you take a seat in the nearby padded chair.

Calypso takes the seat across from you, and sighs.

“How’d you end up with one of those again, Cal?” you ask in a low voice, pointing to the kitchen.

Calypso twirls a lock of her hair around her finger. “An early Christmas gift from Rabastan back in November. He said that if I was going to live in a flat on my own, while continuing to study at St. Mungo’s, that I could do with some assistance.”

It may also have something to do with Calypso's general inability to prepare edible meals. The last time she tried to poach an egg, Corona had to put the results out with a quickly cast _Aguamenti._ Nevertheless, you know Cal's attitude toward house-elves - she compares their servitude to human slavery - and are shocked that she actually kept Tolsey. 

“And you haven’t found a way to get rid of her. Figures.”

“I am fairly certain that if I offered Tolsey clothes, she’d have a nervous breakdown. Don't think I haven't seriously considered it,” she says. “Also, it would be the pinnacle of impertinence to reject such a gift, as you are well aware.”

Right, yeah.

“That mean you and he are still engaged?” you want to know.

You need notice as to whether or not you’ll have to get yet another set of new dress robes, so that you can mentally prepare yourself for another encounter with that tape measure. You’re also under the impression that Calypso is about as excited about marriage as you’d be to give up Quidditch, and contrary to the way you two act sometimes, you would never want her to be legitimately miserable.

“We have elected to take a break of sorts,” she says delicately. “He and I both wish for me to complete my studies before we take such a step, and he is also quite preoccupied with, well, other business.”

That’s her diplomatic way of saying he’s probably running around Somerset with his brother and his brother’s wife, torturing muggles, or whatever it is Death Eaters do when they’re not seated in some ally’s mansion, discussing their superiority over the general population.

You would know how it goes. You almost took the Mark. Almost.

Then, you sauntered right in the opposite direction, and somehow ended up in this resistance thing.

You frequently wake up in the morning and question your life choices.

You question Calypso's more, though, things being what they are. 

“You sure do know how to pick them.”

Her face falls, her foot shakes, and you know you’ve touched an actual nerve.

Before you can apologize, though, she speaks.

“You remember how he was at the rallies,” she reminds you. “I don’t think he cares about the nearly as much about the Dark Lord's cause as Rodolphus and Bellatrix do."

That much is true.

Rabastan Lestrange always struck you as being a sardonic, educated, apathetic, and faintly irreverent man, which is probably why he and Calypso got along well enough to get engaged. That and Narcissa’s well-intentioned wheedling and prodding, once she noticed that they sought each other out so frequently at social gatherings - _likely to knock back gillywaters and mock everyone present._

And, as far as you recall, Rabastan never seemed nearly as fervent in his dedication as his brother, or his brother’s wife - who seems to be an order of magnitude more devoted to the Dark Lord than to her husband. Moreover, his strength lies more in plotting strategies and considering logistics than flinging curses around. If you hadn’t switched sides, you and he would probably be good friends. 

But even if he isn't cackling with glee at the idea of personally eradicating muggles and muggleborns, he’s still a Death Eater. That puts your best friend in a dangerous position. While Calypso's never been stupid, she doesn’t appear to be doing what the situation warrants, in your opinion. Which would be breaking off the engagement and running for her life. Or at least making a stealthy attempt to do the aforementioned. 

“So when are you planning to tell him about this whole Order thing?” you ask. “Before or after you exchange the vows?”

Strangely enough, she calms down at that question, and offers a detailed answer.

Tolsey arrives at that moment with a tray of tea sandwiches, sweets, and two glasses of water. Calypso smiles, thanks her, and offers her some macarons and a watercress sandwich, before dismissing her.

"Mistress is too kind!" Tolsey squeaks.

You swallow a snort. Calypso shakes her head.

“The Dark Lord has been cracking down on the relationships of his inner circle. He does not wish for personal ties to interfere with his plans, particularly when these personal ties serve no purpose. Lucius and Narcissa will almost definitely have children, ensuring one or more purebloods will brought into the wizarding world. Bellatrix and Rodolphus are two of his strongest followers, regardless of whether or not they bear children. Rabastan and I, though? The Dark Lord’s primary tactician should be focused solely on that duty alone.”

That makes a decent amount of sense. Not enough to allay even half of your fears, but it’ll do under the circumstances.

“Furthermore, my uncle makes me a security risk in the Dark Lord’s eyes, one he is not particularly fond of maintaining,” Calypso goes on. “So, while I am technically engaged, for all intents and purposes...”

“...you guys are just staying that way to save face,” you conclude.

Calypso nods, her teeth glinting as she smiles.

“Yes. Then, once I become a fully-fledged healer, I can just say that my job is too demanding for me to maintain that sort of relationship, which it probably will be, anyway.”

As if to prove her point, she grabs the nearest textbook, extricates a vial of green liquid from the pocket of her dress, and pours it into her glass of water.

You recognize it as Draught of Wakefulness, but decide not to lecture her about consuming those things by the cauldronful instead of sleeping more than twice a week. God knows you've done that at least five million times, and it hasn't worked yet.

“So, working hard or hardly working?” you ask her, leaning back in your chair, while she sits up straight. She doesn’t even bother to glance up from her book, so there’s your answer. You catch sight of the title and realize that she _is_ brewing Dittany. You wonder what for.

“Waiting for Julius to get here, to be perfectly honest."

Your mouth drops open wide enough to catch flies.

“Hold on, you mean, the actual Julius?”

“I was unaware that he possessed such a title until now.”

You need a second to get over your shock.

Aforementioned Julius - the man, the myth, the legend - had been Head Boy and a Keeper to the Slytherin Quidditch team in your third year, had subsequently taken some sort of internship at the Ministry after graduation, and managed to leverage his charisma and family influence until he became the second youngest member of the Minister’s support staff.

When people talked about Slytherin excellence, they meant the likes of Julius Flint.

“I was unaware Julius had time for mortals anymore.”

“Oh, he does, when he has the inclination,” Calypso assures you, a meaningful look in her eye.

Resistance business, then.

By the accounts of others who had been inducted before you, Julius Flint was the first person from Slytherin house to join the Order of the Phoenix, and one of its first members in your age group. Even diehard Gryffindor tossers like the Prewett twins, who continue to make snide remarks about other members from your house, have genuine respect for him.

Thinking things over, you ask Tolsey to bring you a daisyroot draught, which you know Calypso keeps stockpiled in her cabinet on the off chance that she decides to entertain guests. It’s more of an old spinster drink than anything else, but it goes down better than firewhiskey, and it gets the job done.

Calypso raises one of her eyebrows at you, looking both amused and scandalized. “You’re going to consume such a substance with Julius coming over? What would the Malfoys say?”

Tolsey bows to you and disappears off to wherever she goes when she’s not actively doing housework. You pop the top on the bottle and take a sip.

“Not here now, are they?” you ask. “Besides, if he’s taking a break from his actual job to come over here, there’s no way it’s good news. I have to prepare myself for this.”

Calypso is forced to admit that you’re probably right. Reluctant to summon the elf again, she rises to get her own bottle, bringing a third for Julius as an afterthought.

“If anyone will need a drink, it’s him.”

“When’s he planning to get here?”

“I should say around five, or thereabouts?”

True to form, Julius apparates into the hall outside Calypso’s front door at exactly five on the dot. Tolsey lets him in.

He’s got on his usual smart robes, looking sharp and authoritative, with not a single hair out of place. He could have walked out of one of those fashion magazines Narcissa's mates used to carry around, except most of those men don’t also work for the Ministry of magic.

The guest on his arm, however, is a bit of a different story - one highly attractive young woman with long dark hair tousled around her face. She wears a rather revealing outfit beneath her cloak, and gives off the faint smell of Ogden’s Old firewhiskey. So, none other than Corona Yaxley, one-half veela, and one-half trouble. 

“I located Miss Yaxley on my way here,” Julius explains. “I felt her presence would be necessary for this situation, though I apologize for not notifying you about this development sooner.”

You have to hand it to Calypso. She never misses a beat.

“Well, it’s certainly wonderful to see you both. Do sit down.”

She summons Tolsey, and has her bring more food and drink for everyone present.

Julius takes off his hat, hangs it on the appropriate hook, declines a drink when Calypso offers it, and eases himself into a chair near the window, gazing outside.

Corona removes her high heels, leaves them near the door, and sits down next to you. You are not complaining in the least, since you get to enjoy the view.

She bats her eyelashes at you. “How long’s it been, Gus?”

“Not more than a month or two,” you answer honestly. Whenever the last Order meeting was, you figure.

Ten points to you, though, since you did not stutter or stare at any part of her body besides her face while saying that. You’re getting better at this.

Calypso looks between the two of you and rolls her eyes. 

“So what have you found out in the interim?” she asks Corona.

“Loads of stuff! There’s this apothecary off Knockturn Alley that has pretty much every kind of substance you could never want, real cheap too! And then—”

“Have you learned anything of actual importance?” Calypso asks again, stressing the words as she speaks them.

The flirtatious drunk act vanishes as if it had never existed.

Corona glances around the room, takes out her wand, and casts several nonverbal spells around the walls and doors. For good measure, she also casts a somnolence charm on Tolsey, who puts down the tea tray in her arms, curls up in a corner, and begins to snore evenly.

“Good enough, Jules?” she asks the man sitting near the window.

It is a true testament to her disposition that she would address Julius Flint as “Jules”, but he is nonplussed.

Julius tests whatever she’s cast with curses of his own, and the protective charms do not yield.

“I believe so.”

Calypso crosses her arms and frowns. “You know, I did have actual wards all around my flat before you lot came along.”

“Yeah, but your thing’s curses and healing spells more than this sorta stuff,” Corona responds evenly. “Never hurts to be careful, right?”

“You are not incorrect,” Calypso says.

Corona swipes the drink that Julius declined off the low table, uncorks the top, and takes a long swig before speaking.

“Right, so, Crabbe's mastered the Cruciatus, tested it out on a few blood traitors, and wouldn’t stop bragging about it. Snape’s still up to his usual dark shit, but I dunno if he’s actually come up with anything new. Nott’s angling for a job at the Ministry, trying to be one of the infiltrators, but he’s pretty stupid, so I don’t think they’ll actually give him anything important. Malfoy moved up in the ranks, and got some random book as a reward, meaning someone else got moved down. Macnair and Nott are having some sort of row, I don’t know whether it’s over rank, honor, a girl, or what. As of sometime last week, Bella’s officially second in command to the Dark Lord's forces. Also, he's sworn in a bunch of Hogwarts students recently, but Jules can probably tell you more about that.”

It’s amazing the sorts of things she can find out just by working as a barmaid at The Third Eye, an inn off Knockturn Alley that many Death Eaters and their sympathizers frequent, since the staff asks next to no questions. Allegedly Leo Travers’s brother once saw someone cast the Killing Curse on someone at the bar, and all they did was throw the caster out, and heft the dead body outside.

Then again, Corona doesn’t just work. She also talks to and drinks with the patrons, gets to know them, listens to their stories. To many of them, particularly the ones around your age, she’s practically an old friend. Even if her veela heritage didn't turn the heads of most men, she regularly stumbled into the Slytherin common room at the oddest of hours and with the flimsiest of excuses often enough to become well-known.

Not the sort of girl you’d bring home to your mum, but definitely the sort you want to be acquainted (and possibly more) with. 

She knows it, too. She banks on it.

“It would be a mistake to ever underestimate you, Corona,” Calypso tells her - earning a genuine and dazzling smile from Corona - and you’re quick to agree with Cal's assessment. She continues, “I have to wonder what all of this means.”

Julius turns away from the window, looking at all of you at last.

“I’d propose that he has to be organizing something major, if he’s shuffling main players around this much.”

You remember your brief tenure of nearly becoming a Death Eater, the sort of environment the Dark Lord cultivated and maintained, and a different idea occurs to you.

“Maybe he’s just being paranoid,” you say. “He’s got a knack for that. Doesn’t even trust his own shadow for more than a minute.”

“I would be more inclined to agree with your analysis, if not for the things I heard today,” Julius replies.

With one flippant hand motion, Corona gestures for him to get on with whatever he has to say. “Which were?”

“Today was the sixth-year career advisement day, and naturally I made an appearance to encourage students with the proper academic credentials to consider interning with the Ministry after next year, even meeting with a few individually to discuss where they might best fit in.”

You can practically hear Corona rolling her eyes, as patience is not a virtue she possesses, at least not unless she's wheedling information out of people. 

“And?”

“I spoke personally to Leo Travers, who had critical information to share with me. Three more from our house have definitely taken the Mark.”

Leo is the lone Slytherin on your side who still attends Hogwarts. A sheep in a den of wolves. Baby wolves, but wolves, nevertheless.

And while it isn’t as bad as the mass murder you’d expected to hear about when you found out Julius was taking a break from assisting the Minister to come over, it’s nowhere near good news. The Dark Lord’s ranks are swelling.

Calypso takes a small sip from her respective bottle, her foot thoughtfully tapping the floor again. “Which three?”

“Severus Snape, Bartemius Crouch Junior, and Regulus Black.”

It’s not as if you can say you’re particularly surprised about any of those names. You would have been more shocked had they not been Marked.

Snape knows nearly as many dark spells and curses as Calypso, who spent most of her vacations wandering into Knockturn Alley, purchasing spellbooks, and practicing on whatever inanimate objects she could find, but unlike her, he is not on your side.

Regulus, well, that kid has been determined to be as different as possible from his godawful embarrassment of a brother since day one. You guess becoming a Death Eater works for that purpose, although he could have just made an effort to not be a git - a problem he never seemed to have in the first place - and had nearly the same effect.

Meanwhile, Crouch, whose father never seemed to have any time for him, or for anything save becoming Minister for Magic, hates his father’s guts and everything he stands for. You’d probably hate your dad too, if he was as simultaneously neglectful and authoritarian as Barty Crouch.

Your dad isn't the greatest, but... it could be worse.

“However, they are far from the only ones,” Julius goes on. “From what I have been told, two Ravenclaws, a Hufflepuff, and a Gryffindor have been Marked as well.”

In the end, it’s the last bit that really gets you.

All the contempt you have for the prats in red and gold aside, you were pretty sure none of them would ever become a Death Eater. Gryffindors’ excuses for being brash assholes generally ran that that they were brash assholes on the side of Good: defending innocent muggles, defeating dark wizards, kissing babies, all that nonsense.

Evidently either you or they went wrong somewhere.

All of you gaze at each other in surprise, except for Julius, who simply sits there quietly, hands folded in his lap, either already having come to terms with this paradigm shift, or just being his usual stoic self. Corona grabs her bottle of mead off the floor and chugs the entirety of its contents. You guess this is the first she’s hearing of this as well.

“Bloody hell,” she says, in slack-jawed awe. “Who would have thought...?”

“If Cornelius Fudge could gain a position in the Ministry, then anything is possible,” Calypso quips.

As part of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, Cornelius Fudge is a man who oftentimes works closely with the the Auror Squad. And the way Cal tells it, his main job appears to be stressing her uncle out with his incompetence.

Julius sighs and shakes his head. He's on good terms with Fudge.

“I would prefer that you not make derogatory statements about him in my presence.”

“You do it, too.”

“I actually know him personally.”

This argument, again.

“Is Leo still safe without the Mark, though?” you want to know, recalling the few friends he has in his year, every single one in Slytherin. “He still hangs around that lot, don’t you think they’re going to wonder why he hasn’t gone the full way?”

Corona is quick to chime in with more information, that issues, for once, in your favor.

“Not if what Crabbe told me a few days ago is true,” she explains. “Corvus Travers royally screwed up some important operation, so it’s not as if the Dark Lord wants to recruit another one, particularly a kid that hasn’t really distinguished himself. I mean, he’s brilliant at Herbology and Ancient Runes, but what use is that? The Dark Lord’s not about to start hurling Venomous Tentacula at muggleborns. Leo’s mediocre compared to the others, and that makes him safe.”

"Rune magic could do a lot for the Dark Lord if he bothered to study certain texts," you say.

Corona shrugs. "it could, but Leo isn't well-versed in that side of the subject, and the Dark Lord is probably aware of that. My point stands."

That it does.

“What do we do about this though?" you ask. "It’s clear that the Death Eaters are getting stronger in terms of sheer numbers.”

All of you look to Julius, who instead of coming up with some kind of brilliant and utterly airtight plan, merely shakes his head.

“I have thought it over a great deal, since Voldemort and his followers are a dangerous force. I'm not sure, though.”

Did Julius just call the Dark Lord by his name? You exchange a significant glance with Corona.

“Can’t the Death Eaters in Hogwarts be apprehended and expelled? Maybe arrested?” she asks. “Whatever they’re doing has to be breaking rules.”

“While there have certainly been cases of questionable circumstances, none have been conclusively linked to any great wrongdoing, aside from a few students getting in trouble for dueling. There would be no real case against them.

“We know they’ve been killing muggles.” Calypso clenches her fists, knuckles whitening with anger. “Those deaths over in Bristol, you can’t just–”

Julius raises his hand to interrupt her.

“No suspects were apprehended, although magical interference was _suspected._ Law enforcement doesn’t have warrants to use Veritaserum by force considering the utter lack of evidence, and to be quite frank, very few people in the Ministry care about five dead muggles. Maybe a crusading Auror or two, but that’s it. And most Death Eaters who'd be brazen or stupid enough to consider such an attack come from powerful families. Meritless accusations might very well be career suicide for whoever makes them.”

Calypso shakes her head. “I heard what the Dark Lord had to say last year. Rabastan had me accompany him to a few meetings so he wouldn't be bored silly, but I fail to see how anyone could be bored by the his plans. Disturbed, yes. But not bored."

“They're just that, for now, though,” Julius reminds her. “Plans. Not actions. And until they become the latter, and preferably against witches and wizards, I doubt there’s much the Ministry is going to do about it.”

You shake your head, and put your hand on Calypso’s arm to steady her before she loses her temper.

“We should tell Dumbledore, then. Tell him to call up an Order meeting.”

Julius nods. “Already done. The next meeting is approximately three weeks from now.”

Corona rolls her eyes in earnest, and tries to take a drink from her bottle before remembering that it’s empty.

“Why the wait? It’s not like there’re people dying or anything.”

“Bet the next Hogsmeade visit’s in three weeks,” you tell her.

Corona shrugs. “So what?”

“A good chunk of the Order are still students at Hogwarts. What other pretext could you come up with them leaving grounds for a while?” Calypso asks.

The moments when you and she operate on the exact same wavelength are always a little unsettling. You suppose this is what happens when you’ve known someone for far too many years of your life.

“Exactly,” Julius says.

“What’s the plan until then?” you ask him.

“Fifty galleons says it’s going to be some tripe like, ‘act like everything’s totally normal, and wait for further instruction from Dumbledore’ or something,” Corona mutters.

Julius gives Corona a bitter smile for that. “Essentially, that is the case.”

Calypso gets up to clear the table, and stops herself at the last second.

“So I’ll be seeing how long I can live without eating or sleeping, Julius will be waiting hand and foot on the Minister, Corona will be getting wasted with the enemy, and Augustine’ll be trying not to concuss himself on his broomstick. Got it.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” you add.

It shouldn’t be, but it is.

All of you look over your shoulders more than usual, though as far as you know, you’re personally safe. There’s no reason to suspect any of you, all of you purebloods, particularly when there are more enticing targets on the Dark Lord’s list.

Calypso’s life barely changes. It revolved around healer training before, and it revolves around healer training now, except for the fact that she begins surreptitiously scanning medical records at St. Mungo’s for injuries related to dark magic.

“If I can show that someone’s condition is consistent with being hit by something like an Unforgivable,” she insists, almost feverishly, “and then if I can link that person’s attacker to someone allied with the Death Eater crowd, then that’s proof. That's something to bring to the aurors.”

She meets your attempts to point out how unlikely this is to actually happen, and how much attention she could be drawing to herself with her digging, with withering glares and biting retorts. The night she gets angry enough to consider drawing her wand, you disarm her before she can, confund her so she can’t cast wandlessly, and run down to the nearest apothecary for some kind of sleeping potion with which to spike her tea. Even confunded, she refuses to drink it.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. If Cal blows her cover, all of you are fucked. You do what you must.

You never thought you'd live to see the day you'd cast _Imperio_ on anyone, but here you are. As soon as she's asleep, you lift the curse, carry to her room, and tuck her into bed.

You stretch out on the loveseat in Cal's sitting room, and let Tolsey bring you a cup of valerian while you peruse an old Arithmancy book of yours, which you've taken to carrying around solely as a sleep aid. Whether from the tea, the book, or both, you manage to get seven or so hours of shut-eye. 

Calypso's still out like a light when you wake up to go to work. When you return to her flat, after your shift is over, she's still asleep.

Briefly, you worry that you gave her too much sedative, at least until Tolsey assures you that Calypso had been up earlier in the day. She'd read a letter from Leo, declared her intent to strangle you the next time she saw you, and then asked Tolsey to wake her when you came back.

Sounds about right.

"But Tolsey does not want to see Master Augustine strangled, no she does not!" Tolsey shakes her head so emphatically that her ears flap to and fro. "Mistress Calypso did not say that Tolsey had to wake her _as soon_ as Master Augustine arrived, so..."

You rather like Calypso's elf, you have to admit.

And when Cal opens her eyes, still hazy and groggy, the first thing she asks is, “You Imperiused me?”

You cast a wordless shield charm just in case.

"Yeah, 'cause you needed to sleep, and you wouldn't put the books down. You were near bloody delirious, you know that?"

Rather than being furious with you, she seems to be almost... impressed. She sighs.

"Augustine, you astound me."

She takes your hand and squeezes it. You note the softness of her fingers, interlaced with yours, and push certain thoughts from your mind. Then, Calypso lets go of your hand, and rubs her eyes.

“Do you feel better? A little more rational now?” you ask.

She stretches, yawns, and admits that she does. With her mouth downturned, and her eyes still a bit glazed over, she apologizes profusely for her actions. Of course you accept the apology. You apologize for your own.

"Don't worry, I won't report you to my uncle," she replies. "Azkaban robes would look terrible with your complexion."

That's not why you apologized, and you hope she knows that. You think she does.

Meanwhile, Corona continues to serve her patrons, although she confesses to you that she’s hasn’t been trying quite as hard to glean secrets from them. Mostly, she’s been playing the part of the tipsy hostess, only learning what they choose to tell her on their own drunken accord, and not really slipping in her usual sly questions. They don’t seem to notice, and the flow of information doesn’t slow by much, but it makes her feel more secure.

“We already know most of what we need to know,” she says to you, one evening. “Besides, I don’t want to give them any reason not to trust me. Not now, at least.”

You start spending nights at her place, since it’s closer to Gringotts, and it’s good being able to talk to someone else about all this nonsense. Someone who isn’t bogged down by work like Calypso. Also, Corona sleeps better when she’s not alone, as she makes clear to you on more than one occasion.

“Maybe you should get a cat or something,” you suggest.

“What if I don’t want a cat, Augustine? What if I want something else?”

She gazes at you, openly, honestly. This is not part of her usual act. Your mouth goes dry.

Even with ninety percent of your mind suggesting the contrary, you refuse to entertain that line of questioning further, because you are already embroiled in enough drama to last you ten thousand lifetimes without adding something like that. She takes your rejection well enough, and doesn’t ask anything of the sort a second time.

Julius is Julius, playing with his cards close to his vest as always. Whatever nebulous schemes he might be entertaining, he’d be more likely to confide in Calypso than you. You don’t really mind this at all. They can both maddeningly be formal and long-winded when they put their minds to it, so in your opinion, they deserve each other. Let them put their heads together and come up with something.

Based on the contents of his letters, Leo puts on the perfect show of Dark Lord devotee, utterly crushed that he was not invited to fully join the organization of his dreams. Snape, Crouch, and Black the younger all try to console him in turns. You read this over, and try not to laugh, imagining Snape attempting to console anyone. You wonder if Snape tried to pat him on the back and left grease spots on Leo’s cloak in the process.

In order to cheer him up, since he is their dear friend, having always been just as dedicated to the cause as they were, they tell him almost everything that goes on in meetings. It’s the least they can do for him until the Dark Lord decides that Corvus Travers’s incompetence is not his younger brother’s.

Of course, he relays whatever details they give him directly to you, but not any of the others. He does explain why, when you ask.

Calypso terrifies him because she reminds him of Bellatrix Lestrange _(not a wholly inaccurate comparison)_ , Corona is too pretty to be approachable _(you’re shocked he swings that way, though maybe it’s just Corona's whole veela thing)_ , and Julius is too important to ever be approachable, since he’s practically God _(truly the best line you’ve ever heard about the guy)._

That leaves you. You don’t really mind this.

Leo’s an okay kid, for all his frequent naivete, for his belief that the Dark Lord will be defeated because he’s too evil to win.

He’s like a little brother you never had or wanted, until you just kind of ended up with him one day and got used to it. So here you are.

Ostensibly, you Slytherins were admitted into the Order to act as spies, and while you’d never thought yourself much of a spy, you’d thought Leo even less of one. Too honest with both his facial expressions and his mannerisms. Too obviously infatuated with Crouch ever to lie to him.

You were wrong on both counts.

At this point, gangly, awkward Leo Travers is one of the most useful spies in the entire Order. You’d actually be proud of him if you weren’t scared for his life.

As for you, personally, you alternate between being glared at by Goblins at your Gringotts internship, telling Julius that letting someone else in on his ideas as a backup plan might be a smart move, reminding Calypso to sleep and eat regularly, waking Corona up for work, and playing Quidditch on your off hours. In the scheme of things, you are basically useless to the cause of the resistance, aside from keeping your friends more or less functional, but you’re kind of okay with that at the moment.

Given the Dark Lord, you’re sure you’ll find some novel way to die in the months to come.

The days tick by.

The final owl you receive from Leo before the Order meeting informs you of the impending Hogsmeade date, and instructs you to apparate to a field just east of Madam Puddifoot’s at ten in the morning on that day. There, you will find a large black dog that will somehow - assumably through some heretofore unknown canine telepathy - lead you to a safe place to travel by Portkey.

Where the Portkey will be taking you is unknown, and why your guide is a dog is equally so, but you are not to tell Calypso or anyone else about the particulars, since most of you will be traveling separately.

You figure you can do that much.

They would all just conclude that he’d finally gone round the bend. That’s what you’ve concluded, anyway.

You check your family's liquor cabinet, and confirm that you haven’t downed any great volume of absinthe recently. You tip Leo’s obnoxious owl, happily bid it adieu, and go back to the roll of parchment. Leo’s handwriting and signature look normal, even if the message is clearly garbled in some critical way. You hit this letter with Specialis Revealio and every other code-breaking spell you can think of, but the text remains unchanged.

Failing to come up with an alternate course of action in the interim, two days later, you find yourself getting ready to leave for Hogsmeade at nine in the morning, dressed in your work clothes.

“Where are you off to, love?” your mother asks you, on your way out the door.

“Work.”

“On a Saturday? Without breakfast?”

“I have important things to do, Mum. You know how the goblins are.”

After all is said and done, she straightens your tie and sends you off with enough eggs and toast to feed a small army. You jog a good mile away from your house, into a thicket of trees, and apparate to where you vaguely remember Madam Puddifoot’s being the last time you deigned to venture near such a place. You end up tangled in a load of garish pink decorations, nearly smashing your face into the front door in an attempt to free yourself.

Wincing, you reflect that at least you didn’t splinch.

You check your watch - five to - and head east until you find the clearing Leo mentioned. Fortunately, there are no nutters in black cloaks and masks waiting to ambush you. There is - since the powers that be enjoy getting a good laugh on your account every so often - a large black dog sitting amongst the dead weeds, wagging its tail at you.

“Roll over?” you ask.

You didn’t know dogs could sneer until this very moment in time.

“Fetch?” you try.

The dog responds by grabbing hold of your trouser leg with its teeth, and tugging you further east. You think you hear a bubbling peal of gentle laughter then, but after looking around, conclude that it must have only been the wind.

Merlin’s pants, it’s cold out here. And snowing.

“Whoever came up with this brilliant plan can sod right the hell off,” you mutter. Oddly enough, the dog seems to agree with you. Good boy.

You walk until your fingertips feel chilly shoved into your cloak, even with a warming charm cast. As an afterthought, you cast a warming charm on the dog. Then, you walk some more. You and he exchange glances of pure misery every so often, with no end to your march in sight.

You are unsure how long you have been walking through the Arctic Circle, with only a canine companion to keep you sane. You haven't seen another human being in what may very well be a thousand years.

“Probably shouldn’t be strolling around with you alone, you know,” you tell the dog, who cocks his head to one side in faint confusion.

“Well, Divination - that’s um, fortelling the future and so forth - there’s this giant black dog symbol,” you say. The part of your mind that isn’t wholly frozen asks you why you’re explaining the most useless subject on earth to some random dog. “Anyway, it’s called the Grim, and it’s supposed to be an omen of death if you see it.”

The dog continues walking as if he hasn’t heard you, finally stopping you at the mouth of a small cave.

You’ve never been this far east of Hogsmeade.

“You’re not here to kill me, right?” you ask.

“I think it would be a bit of a waste for him to kill you after he’s made you walk all the way here,” comes an soft, disembodied voice.

Merlin’s beard, you knew this was going to be some kind of trap.

You wheel around, wand extended, although you’re not sure where to aim. Whoever, whatever it is, you’ll disable it. You’ll try to take it alive, but if it comes down to you or them, well, you know who you’re going to pick.

Assuming it’s not a ghost and unkillable by definition. But ghosts can’t harm you, right? Those are Inferi, which are generally not invisible.

“Who are you?” you demand, wand arm shaking.

“Well, I’m myself,” the voice responds.

The dog looks between the two of you like he’s had quite enough of this nonsense. He flattens his ears to his head and bounds into the cave, barking at you.

You ignore him.

“And who is that? Who are you exactly?” Your wand hand is going numb, no longer protected by the fabric of your cloak, but you keep it raised anyway.

“That’s a very existential question to ask, you know.”

You notice then, that the disembodied voice has been leaving footsteps in the snow, and if you squint enough, you can see the faintest outline of their form in the air. They’re shorter and slighter than you by far.

The dog barks again, louder this time, from the mouth of the cave.

“I think we should follow him. He seems to be quite cross with us right now,” the voice says matter-of-factly, their footsteps moving closer and closer to the cave.

“Not until you tell me who you are,” you insist. “Like, your name, or I don’t know, something!”

“My name?” this strange being asks, tone rising on the last word. “Why didn’t you ask that before? I’m _Pandora!”_

“Oh, for the love of Merlin!” a male voice calls from inside the cave. “Both of you get in here before I throttle you!”

You recognize that voice too.

That’s also an Order member, but you can’t quite place whom.

Pandora McCann, evidently under a reasonably powerful disilliusionment charm, pulls you into the cave and starts casting wards and defensive spells across the cave’s mouth. Your eyes adjust to the relative darkness, and sure enough, there’s a young man crouched in the corner, wearing not a stitch of clothing, and giving the both of you the world’s most impressive scowl, his grey eyes partially obscured by an impressive head of shaggy black hair.

Of course it would be Sirius Black, possibly the last person you’d ever want to see in any state of undress.

“McCann, change yourself back and give me my robes and I might reconsider hexing you,” he says. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s freezing in here.”

You feel the energy of a spell being cast, and then there’s Pandora, wearing her Hufflepuff robes, with a large bag slung around one shoulder, which she throws to Black. He opens the bag, extricates his robes, and dresses at record speed, occasionally glancing at either one of you and rolling his eyes spectacularly.

“Why do I ever volunteer to do anything?” he asks, burying his face in his hands. “I should have just stayed in bed and nicked brunch from the kitchens.”

You stand there with your mouth open, utterly lost for words.

“Well, we did get to the Portkey point, successfully,” Pandora points out.

“Minus the part about trying to do this quietly, Miss ‘why didn’t you ask me your name earlier?’, mother of Gryffindor,” he fires back.

He pulls some strange boxy contraption out of his bag, along with what looks like a large square of reinforced parchment. Then, he looks to Pandora.

“You did cast Muffliato, yes?”

She nods.

He fools around with the boxy contraption, for a minute or two, and then it starts emitting odd little sounds, sounds that eventually resolve into some sort of music? It’s not like any kind you’ve ever heard before.

“What on Earth is that?” you ask, having finally found your voice.

Black rolls his eyes yet again. “Pink Floyd.”

You guess that’s what the weird device is called, although you can’t understand why. It’s not pink. And you’re not sure what a floyd even is.

While Black listens to his weird music and ignores everything except for the cave wall in front of him, Pandora does her best to explain everything.

There’s a Portkey due to leave from here at half past one, although neither of them has it. Two more people are set to arrive at this point, Presumably one of them carries it in their  
possession.

Also, Black is an unregistered Animagus, and it would somehow look less suspicious to any possible onlookers for you to be following a dog around, than to be in the company of Sirius Black.

That's probably true.

"Wonder what Dumbledore had to say when he found out about that," you muse aloud. "Explains how you and your mates manage to get into so much trouble."

Black shrugs.

"He hasn't," he replies, in a tone that intimates that he plans to keep it that way.

Concealing such vital information from the headmaster? You've clearly underestimated Sirius Black, and not necessarily in a bad way.

You recall the morning that you and Calypso stepped into Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts to inquire about the Order. You'd concocted some kind of cover story about applying to help Madam Hooch teach Quidditch for the next term, and Cal needing to pick up a recommendation for a clinical internship at her training program.

Professor Dumbledore offered the both of you lemon drops and cups of tea once you were seated.

You'd figured that one or the other was laced with Veritaserum, but, knowing how dangerous the Dark Lord could be, did not begrudge Dumbledore this. Hell, you'd have been more concerned had he not taken such precautions. As the headmaster peered at you and engaged you in idle chitchat, you registered the sensation of soft pinpricks against your forehead and scalp.

_Wait a second._

You recalled the times your father caught and punished you after wrongdoings, how he'd always _known_ exactly what you'd done, even when you refused up and down to tell him. Until he was encouraged to retire - his penchant for Bilshen's Firewhiskey having gotten the better of his mind and temper - he'd worked as a legilimens at the Ministry for nearly twenty years. Being forced to share a house with the fucker ensured that you at least become proficient at Occlumency, unless you wanted your old man to find out about every detention you received and every girl you snogged.

So, incensed at such intrusion, you fixed the headmaster's gaze in yours, and mentally pushed back as hard as you could. A scrap of memory - a blond man, about your age, playing chess with a freckled little girl with auburn hair and sky-blue eyes - swam into your field of vision.

Professor Dumbledore quickly looked elsewhere, his fingers twitching on his teacup. His demeanor shifted then; he suggested that you and Calypso could be exceedingly useful to the order. Cal glanced between the two of you, confused, and you refrained from explaining to her exactly what had happened, later.

So, if Sirius Black has managed to conceal the extent of his Transfiguration prowess from that bespectacled arsehole, you suppose that he's entitled to his secrets. Furthermore, the thing that he seems so fond of is called a phonograph, a muggle device that he charmed to work in the wizarding world. It plays music. And Pink Floyd is a musical group, not the name for the object.

“Why did he bring it, though?” you ask Pandora. "Is that the Portkey?"

She shakes her head. "It isn't."

"Then why...?"

Black turns to look at you, a shadow of a grin on his face.

“Why not?”

“It does make the cave somewhat more pleasant, the melody,” she says, casting another warming charm around all of you.

You shrug. To each his own, you suppose.

The music isn’t particularly awful, you have to admit to yourself, just odd.

Forty-five or so minutes later - you’re not really keeping track of the time - a silver doe gallops through the mouth of the cave, and stares up at Pandora, wonderingly.

It’s definitely a Patronus, though whose, you don’t know. For the umpteenth time today, Black scowls. You’d point out to him how very much he resembles his mum when he does that, but you’re fairly certain he’d hex you, and it's a bit early to be entertaining the thought of a duel.

“Don’t tell me you forgot to set the wards to admit her,” he murmurs to Pandora, shaking his head.

Pandora flicks her wand gently, and the shield over the cave briefly glows green. In stumbles a snow-caked, disillusioned figure that quickly reveals itself to be Lily Evans.

She takes a few seconds to bask in the feeling of the warming charms, smiling faintly. Then, she waves her wand over her hair so it’ll dry, her green eyes taking each of you in one at a time.

“I don’t suppose any of you have seen Leo Travers anywhere?” she asks.

“Only people I’ve seen so far is this lot,” Black replies, pointing at you and Pandora. "Wait'll I tell you about the walk here."

Evans pays him little attention - aside from a brief remark of sympathy - and focuses on you.

“I haven’t seen him either,” you tell her.

She pulls an ornate water goblet out of her robes, and sets it down in the middle of all of you. Then, she takes out a pocket watch and glances at it.

“Well, the Portkey is set to activate in forty minutes whether he’s here or not,” she informs you. “I saw him leaving the castle, but I lost sight of him in the snow. Wish someone would have checked the weather before making this a meeting point.”

Black snorts.

“Tiny git probably lost himself in a snow drift somewhere.”

Evans gives him a long, weary stare, and looks as if she wants to say something, but decides better of it.

You, however have no such filter.

“Leo’s not a git,” you grind out, through gritted teeth. "And you're hardly one to talk."

“My mistake,” Black replies mockingly, “given those he chooses to associate with.”

You draw your wand.

“Really? Is that so? ‘Cause the way I see it, he’s risking his life every day to help the Order by giving details about known Death Eaters, while you’re just running your mouth ‘cause you actually have the damn luxury.”

Evans takes out her wand as well, intending to cast a shield by her motions, but this does nothing to ease hostilities.

Black gives her this utterly twisted smirk.

“Go ahead and hex me, Evans,” he jeers. “I dare you.”

She shakes her head at him.

“You know I don’t want to.”

“If she doesn’t, I do,” you insist.

“I think you do, though, underneath your diplomacy,” he tells her. “I think you’ve wanted to since fifth year OWLs, remember? Under the tree, with me, and Prongs, and Sniv–”

In that moment, Evans’s eyes flash cold as ice.

Halfway through uttering a stinging hex, she drops her wand when a bolt of lighting cracks against the far wall of the cave.

You look at the others wildly, searching for the source of the spell.

_Not Evans. Not Black. Certainly not you. Then..._

Pandora lowers her wand. The wisps of white-blond hair escaping her numerous braids stand on end from the static discharge.

“Okay,” she says, gently. “I guess that one worked out better than I thought. Or worse. I’m not quite sure.”

Nobody really knows what to say to that. Pandora turns to you first.

“Augustine, you’re angry because Sirius insulted your very good friend, you’re worried about Leo, and I don’t think you very much liked Sirius to begin with.”

You can’t really argue with that.

She glances over to Evans.

“You’re angry because Sirius decided to twist the knife precisely where it would do the most damage, as he tends to do whenever he gets into one of his moods.”

And then she stares at last, at Black, who seems faintly afraid of her, although she’s roughly a foot shorter than he. You completely understand why. Pandora's as bloody scary as Calypso, and doesn't even have the reputation.

“And Sirius, you’re upset because you keep wishing it was Regulus coming to join us, instead of Leo. Trying to provoke all of us is kind of counterproductive, isn't it? You're not going to feel better, and Regulus isn't going to somehow become less of a Death Eater."

After a few minutes that seems to last a decade, Black nods numbly, letting his wand drop to the stone floor, and refusing to meet anyone's eyes. He gestures at Evans.

"McCann's right," he says. “I apologize for what I said, Lily. And for what I did. It was fucked up on so many levels...”

She places a tentative hand on his shoulder, and you’re about to inwardly roll your eyes at her easy ability to forgive when she says, “yes, Sirius. Yes it was.”

Well, then.

Your respect for her has gone up by a few degrees.

“I don't know what else to say," he murmurs. "All I can do is talk about how sorry I am. Which doesn't change a bloody thing, does it?"

“I know,” she tells him gently. “I’m sorry too, about Regulus.”

You'd chime in with your own apologies - you were once a Slytherin prefect, in charge of supervising and mentoring these underclassmen - if not for your fear of intruding on their conversation.

“What do we do if we have to fight them?” he asks, putting his head in his hands. “What are we going to do?”

She gazes around the cave, as if the answer might be written in one of its faces.

“I don’t know.”

Black seems to compose himself over that answer for some unfathomable reason.

You will never understand how his mind works, or if it does.

He tucks his phonograph under one arm, walks over to the mouth of the cave, and peers outside.

“Suppose we should probably go Travers hunting, then. How much time do we have left?”

You pick up the pocket watch from the stone floor, and check the time. “Twenty minutes.”

“Okay, this is most definitely not part of the plan, but losing this kid was also not part of the sodding plan,” Black declares.

He leaves the phonograph just inside of the cave, and dashes outside without a word. Evans follows, right on his heels, tucking her wand behind her ear after she's cast disillusionment charms on the pair of them.

_Gryffindors are all bloody mental,_ you decide for the seventieth time. 

You bend down and pick up Black’s wand from where he left it, and then forgot about it. Fucking idiot.

You have a brief inward battle with yourself, and then you’re up and running after them, under your own charm.

Thank Christ that the snow isn’t actually deep. Just blinding.

Your nightmarish visions of Leo frozen in a ten foot drift dissipate somewhat.

“Oi, Black!” you shout at where you think he might be.

“Yeah?” a voice calls, maybe five or so meters up ahead.

You lighten the disillusionment spell just enough that he'll be able to faintly discern you. Then, you hand him his wand.

“I do believe you’re missing something.”

He accepts it from you, momentarily shocked.

“Thank you.”

Evans doubles back to the pair of you, focusing on you in particular.

“We won’t see him in this, and he won't see us, but maybe if you yell for him, he’ll hear us. I don’t think there’s anyone else for kilometers,” she says.

“The disillusionment charms...” Pandora starts to say. "Not your best work, any of you."

Evans shakes her head. “Who could see us properly in this, either way?”

That's true. After strengthening the charms on Evans, Black, and Pandora, you start yelling. 

“Hey, Leo, get your arse over here!” You stomp around in the whiteout conditions, probably walking in circles, but continuing to shout like your life depends on it. “Merlin’s pants, Leo, I know you’re out there!”

Finally, you notice a faint dot in the far off distance, weaving vaguely towards you. You raise your wand just in case, but you think you'd know this prat anywhere.

“Augustine?” he calls, hesitating now.

You lift the charm on yourself.

“Time,” Pandora murmurs. You toss the pocket watch to her feet. 

“No, Leo, it’s Slughorn! Get over here, you daft fuck!”

You could kick him, but you’ll wait until after you get to wherever the you’re going.

“Three minutes,” she warns, but Leo makes it over to you easily, once he figures out where to go. All of you stumble into a copse of trees near the cave.

Evans extends the goblet, then.

“Okay, everyone just put your hands on this and wait,” she whispers to Pandora. “That makes you, me..." She glances at you and Leo. "Those two, and... _oh_ no."

Black has vanished, seemingly into thin fucking air. One minute and thirty to go. All of you search for him, making sure to keep one hand on the Portkey. Unsurprisingly, you manage to discern a grand total of fuck all, for that.

“One minute,” Pandora frets, casting bluebell flames in the vain hope that they’ll melt the falling snow enough for her to see.

Right after she calls “forty-five seconds!”, you notice a familiar git sprinting back toward you from the direction of the cave, clad only in his shirtsleeves, tie and trousers, a bundle in his arms wrapped up in his winter cloak.

The phonograph.

Salazar and all his Heirs, this one went back just for his bloody phonograph.

Evans swears so spectacularly that you nearly laugh, because really, you've only ever heard curse words shouted in such creative configurations on the Quidditch pitch.

Black gets his hand on the goblet just as Evans and Pandora start a countdown from five.

Leo tightens his grip, and shoots you a glance of pure alarm.

You feel a lurching jerk in your abdomen, and suddenly, you’re all spinning out toward some unknown destination. You’re not particularly religious anymore, but you pray to whoever might be listening that you survive the journey with this group of lunatics.

You land in front of a nondescript little cottage, fairly comfortably considering how convinced you were that you’d die on the journey.

Potter and Lupin must have arrived before you, because the former takes one look at Evans and charges over to embrace her. But she shoves him aside, makes a beeline for Black, and punches him square in the face.

“You idiot!” He raises his hands up to his face defensively, and twists away from her. But she's already slugged him by then.

“Stop it, Lily, you’re killing me!”

_“You’d better believe I’m killing you!”_

It takes you, Potter, Lupin, Calypso, Alastor Moody, and one of the Prewett brothers to pull her away from him.

“Good to know we’ve all come together and put aside our differences in these trying times,” Gideon Prewett mutters to you, once the dust settles.

You turn to him and snort.


	3. chapter 2: the sun is the same in a relative way but you're older

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1990, Augustine catches up with Calypso. Sort of. 
> 
> \--
> 
> You’re waiting for the day Cal manages to remember and comprehend enough of the past to ask you what you’re doing here, why she’s stuck in a bed as opposed to being stuck assessing the gits across the hall, and can recall the answer for more than twelve or so hours.
> 
> Generally, when she isn’t being violent and/or trying to hex her healers, she’s mentally somewhere in 1975, telling you that she’s just had to give your mate Avery ten detentions and recommend to Professor Slughorn that points be docked from Slytherin house. That’s right, she told you last time, her expression sour and thoroughly furious, she's filled out paperwork to have points taken from her own bloody house.
> 
> To Cal, it has been 1975 fairly consistently for the last nine years. You don’t blame her. 1975 was a good year compared to the ones that followed.

_**April 1990** _

You duck out of work early to visit Calypso in her final resting place, not the pureblood cemetery in Portree with the rest of your lot, but the Janus Thickey Ward of St Mungo’s Hospital, along with the Longbottoms and a rotating cast of poor sods. Every time you pass through its doors, the irony of her being housed on the same floor as the general spell damage cases is not lost on you. This place should be renamed “The Bellatrix Lestrange Ward”, in honor of the woman who put half its occupants there.

You’re waiting for the day Calypso manages to remember and comprehend enough of the past to ask you what you’re doing here, why she’s stuck in a bed as opposed to being stuck running diagnostics on the gits across the hall, and can recall the answer for more than twelve or so hours.

Generally, when she isn’t being violent and/or trying to hex her healers, she’s mentally somewhere in 1975, telling you that she’s just had to give your mate Avery ten detentions and recommend to Professor Slughorn that points be docked from Slytherin house. That’s right, she told you last time, her expression sour and thoroughly furious, she's filled out paperwork to have points taken from her own bloody house.

It’s been 1975 pretty much constantly for the last nine years. You don’t blame her. ‘75 was a good year compared to the ones that followed.

You kind of want to tell her that Pandora McCann (well, Pandora Lovegood, really) has died, since she might be the only one who would understand the significance of that, even fleetingly. Maybe she’ll hold this fact in her mind for long enough to cry with you. It’s not as if she won’t forget again by tomorrow, Wednesday at the latest.

You recall the way the blackboard in McGonagall’s class would wipe itself clean at the end of each lesson, as if nobody had ever written a single thing on it for the last twenty or so years. Your mind is the board back in transfiguration, Cal, you think.

However, this afternoon it’s not 1975, but 1970. Calypso’s dark, curly hair, which extends more outwards than down, lies in utter disarray. Nervous, she wants to know where she is, who you are, and where her uncle might be.

You kind of have to hand it to her.

Even as an eleven year old, she wouldn’t - or won’t, as the case is - betray any outward sign of fear so easily.

Healer Christophe, whom you think she still unconsciously trusts from her years of training, gets with the times without missing a beat.

He tells her that there was a massive accident at Hogwarts, with injuries beyond the capabilities of the hospital wing to treat, and that she’s being housed here for the next few weeks. He adds that her uncle is fine, and will be along as soon as he can get out of work. She’ll likely be discharged even faster if she drinks her potions like a good little girl.

“I’m not little,” she protests, gulping down a quarter of the sedative nevertheless.

“Too right you’re not,” Christophe says, polite but mirthless. “Drink your potion, Miss Shacklebolt.”

You make a mental note to floo-call the Auror Office when you get home and inform Kingsley that his niece is currently eleven at the present time. He might actually be able to reassure her more than you could, in this state. That said, time was relative with Calypso long before she went out of her mind, so you're kind of used to it.

Then, you decide not to say anything to Kingsley unless he contacts you himself. He’s been made interim head of the Auror Office, while Rufus Scrimgeour . It's not like Calypso's going anywhere anytime soon.

“Who are you, exactly?” she wants to know, once Christophe has left.

Normally she recognizes you when she sees you, your appearance having changed relatively little since 1980. But normally she's mentally sixteen, as opposed to eleven.

“You really can't tell who I am?" you ask.

She peers carefully at you for another minute, before her mind fills in an appropriate face. "Oh! I'm quite sorry for my lapse in manners, Nick. You looked a little different in the light."

"It's fine," you reply. "Don't worry about it."

She trembles for a moment, then, her mouth set in a thin, concerned line. 

"So where's Augustine, then? Is he alright?" she asks. "He wasn't in the accident too, was he?"

You think of the mornings you cannot get out of bed.

_Were you in the accident, Augustine? Were you?_

You should have been. You rack your brains and can’t remember for the life of you why you weren’t. You and Cal could have had double beds here and spent nearly a decade as prefects again, snarking about Lucius Malfoy's hair and trying to give Mulciber detention.

“Sort of. But they said he'll be alright.”

She seems relieved to hear that.

“That prat probably had something to do the with whole thing,” she comments, frowning at her surroundings. "Him and Horatio Avery, maybe."

That gets an actual laugh out of you.

“I can’t disagree there,” you respond.

When she finishes drinking the contents of the goblet, and the sedative catches up with her, she practically stares holes into your frame before she drops into slumber, as if struggling with something significant.

This is the way she tends to be with this particular potion in her system, at least on good days.

“Tell Tolsey to lock my flat until I get home,” she instructs you.

You nod. She isn’t done, though.

“Actually, you know what? You lock my flat, Augustine, and make yourself useful. Tell Corona to get the off my couch and go home, unless she wants to start paying rent to me.”

You promise her that you will do all of these things. You tie her hair back, away from her face, the way she would if they regularly let her have hair ribbons here.

Once you’re finished, she asks for a mirror, and sniffs that you need to take hair care lessons from Narcissa after she gets back from her summer holiday.

You nod again.

“So when are you going home, Cal?” you ask her.

You don’t expect her to have an answer, not one she'll be able to properly act on, but you ask anyway. You always take these few moments that she’s only ten or so years behind the times and latch onto them like a leech. It’s probably not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it does the job when it needs to. You can’t come up with any better ones right now, at least ones that don't involve a lot of alcohol. And you are making a concerted effort to not go the route of your father.

“When I’m done with rounds. So maybe next decade if I get lucky and Christophe doesn’t find a reason to make me stay,” she replies. She glances around. "But you should probably take off soon. I don't think visitors are allowed to be around here right now."

“Got it.”

"How'd you manage to even get past the Welcome Witch?" she wants to know. "There's a bloody Dragon Pox outbreak upstairs. She's not supposed to be allowing anyone past her desk."

You shrug. "I have my ways, Cal."

"That you do," she admits, with a smile. “Don’t have any wild parties, yeah?”

“Do I look like Sirius Black to you?”

“You certainly hang out with the git often enough,” she responds. “For all I know, whatever he’s got is contagious.”

You laugh again, so you don’t cry. If you’re hanging around Black that frequently, it must be at least 1980. Less than a year and the both of them will be locked up.

You feel the burn of unshed tears behind your eyes, and turn briefly away so that Cal doesn't see.

It's a terrible idea, but later on, you want to get falling-down wasted. So pissed that you have to call in sick to your dutiful swot of an assistant and ask him to sort all your paperwork.

After the potion kicks in fully, and Calypso falls asleep, you tell her that Pandora has died. You tell her that you ran into Dorcas Meadowes’s memorial on your way to work.

You tell her that she’d get along well with your assistant, the stupid kid who takes his job entirely too seriously. You tell her that he’s taken over for her as far as preventing you from going fully 'round the bend is concerned. You tell her that you intend to come here to visit every day from now on - a blatant lie, but one that assuages the thrashing sensation in your conscience.

By the time you finally leave, it’s fully dark, and Alice Longbottom has flung a Droobles Best Blowing Gum wrapper at your face.

Calypso continues to snore silently.

While walking away from the hospital and toward a safe apparition point, you recall what she said about Narcissa Malfoy's hair care prowess, and think back to the days leading up to her wedding.

You’d been convinced then that life was utter shit, but really, it was merely getting started on that front.

At least the Order meeting had been something to laugh about, before it became horrifying. Really, that should just be the motto for your entire existence so far.


End file.
